Queen's Gambit

by Karen Chance

  I sat on the edge of the coverlet, my spirit form not even denting the fabric, but boiling up blackly around the posts. It looked like smoke. It looked like the demon spirit Mircea thought me to be. I sat there for a moment, staring at it, finding it hard to think.

  Was he right? Was there something . . . wrong . . . with me? I did not know. Unlike him, I had never met another dhampir. Except for Dory . . .

  I had always assumed that her abilities were limited because of her human nature. That she carried more of our mother’s blood and me more of our father’s. But Mircea was right about one thing: even he could not do some of the things that I could.

  What was I?

  I didn’t know, and there was no one to ask. No one who knew anything about dhampirs, or . . . whatever I was. I wanted to do something, but . . . there was nothing to be done. Nothing at all.

  My eyes finally focused elsewhere, on the dress Dory had worn tonight. A paler blue than Mircea’s brocade, it fell over a nearby chair like water. The dinner party that had necessitated the postponement of my plans had required formal dress, although it was only a small gathering of friends—humans, of course.

  Mircea was hiding his secret from the vampire community, lest his dhampir daughter be used against him. He had enemies, as all masters did. Kidnapping her could put pressure on him; killing her would hurt him. There were those who would like to do both.

  Thus, discretion was needed, despite the fact that he had received permission for her to grow up. Dhampirs were supposed to be killed on sight, but he had traded another life for hers. A woman had tried to usurp the consul’s position, and failed, thanks to him. That and helping his superior to obtain the consulship in the first place had made him a rising star in the vampire world.

  But even stars had to obey the law.

  And time was running out.

  I rose and went to the window, needing to move. I also needed to return to our body; I was draining myself this way. But I was reluctant.

  It wasn’t my body.

  It wasn’t my life.

  I looked for my reflection in the window, but of course, it wasn’t there. I stared out at the empty street, feeling unreal, imaginary. Like the ghost that I sometimes wondered if I was turning into.

  Perhaps I should. I could fly into the sky and just keep going, until my power gave out and my essence dissipated on the wind. That might be better for everyone, in the end.

  Only it wouldn’t be. Because the consul’s forbearance was at an end. Mircea had kept doing her favors, working tirelessly to shore up her government, and in return, had obtained extension after extension on the initial pardon. But she had informed him last month that there would be no more. Dory was an adult now, and a danger to the vampire community. At the end of this year, he had to kill her or release her—which the consul assumed would amount to the same thing.

  It was probably why he had exploded on me the way that he had. Even through the pain, I could see that. He had formulated a plan to keep her safe, to erase her memories and to plant in her mind—and thus in the minds of any vampires who read her thoughts—the idea that the two of them had long been estranged. That he didn’t care about her, that she was nothing more than a mild embarrassment, and that killing her would avail them nothing.

  But while that might keep his enemies off her back, plenty of dhampirs died who were not well connected. And the more people he had watching her, trying to protect her, the more likely he was to lead his enemies straight to her. Or to alert the consul that he was defying her orders, and have the senate itself put a bounty on her head.

  Mircea was in agony, not knowing what to do, and I had just made it worse.

  I moved back to the bed.

  I put a hand out to touch the shining fall of hair. She stirred slightly, as if she had felt me. Perhaps she had.

  Mircea had blocked us from each other, made it impossible for us to communicate, even though we shared a mind. I could have circumvented that, had I wished. Could have taken another body to speak with her, could have written her a note . . .

  And say what? I thought angrily. Draw her into my world, and cause her even more pain? This wasn’t her fault, any more than it was mine. But she would blame herself, I knew she would. There was no solution to our problem, and I was tired of bringing her only sorrow.

  I slipped back inside our skin, and felt her shiver a little at the sensation. She absently pulled up the coverlet, as if that was the cause. And then, still half asleep, she paused, looking at her reflection in the window glass.

  But, this time, it was my face that looked back.

  We stared at each other for a long time. She looked like a child still, with pink cheeks, tumbled hair and sleep filled eyes. His child, with the same high cheekbones, fine arched brows and expressive mouth. They were so alike . . .

  I did not know what she was thinking, but I flashed to an image of Mircea as he had been when he entered our mind that last time: a lone warrior determined to battle a monster for his daughter’s life. He had been grim and resolute, but fearful, too. Fearful of me.

  But not for himself. He had been afraid that he would fail Dory, as he had failed our mother. He had not known what I was, but he would face me, nonetheless, even if it meant his life, because she had no one else.

  Only he was wrong, I decided.

  She had me.

  Ray made a slight sound, and brought my thoughts back to the present. Venice faded away and I was glad to see it go. I wanted no more of it tonight.

  “You stayed alive to save her?” Ray asked, as if unsure of what he’d seen. Or perhaps of whether it was all right to ask.

  I nodded in reply to both. “It gave me something to live for, to fight for. I stayed alive to save her, but in giving me a purpose, she also saved me. I do not think I would have made it, otherwise.”

  “But . . . how did you always know when she was in trouble? If you two were on opposite schedules—”

  I took a drink from the fast depleting canteen. “I discovered that I could take over when Dory was frightened or overwhelmed or excessively tired. Pain, panic and exhaustion shut down her brain enough that I could slip through the cracks, and take over.”

  “And throw down.”

  “Yes.” I put a hand to my head. This had been cathartic, but more overwhelming than I had expected. I had never thought that talking could be as tiring as fighting, but it appeared so.

  Ray pulled the blanket around me, and tucked it in. I looked at him strangely. He looked back, a little embarrassed, but defiant.

  “Everybody needs taking care of, once in a while.”

  I did not know what to say to that, so I said nothing at all.

  “And now that you’ve succeeded?” he asked, sitting back again. “Now that Dory is not only safe but a bigshot in the vampire world? What now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” He looked like that hadn’t made sense, although it was rather the point of all this.

  “You asked me what I wanted,” I reminded him. “I told you the truth: I don’t know. I’ve lived for one thing and one thing only for centuries, and now . . .”

  I let it trail off.

  I didn’t have any answers for him, or for myself. I wasn’t even sure I knew the right questions. I had been alone for so long, that I didn’t know where to start to build a life, or how or even if I should. What if Mircea had been right, and I was some kind of monster? He was a gifted mentalist. What had he seen, exactly, that had frightened him so?

  And even if he was wrong, and I was merely a dhampir and Dory’s other half, did it matter? After so long, was I not broken beyond repair? Could I ever really hope to—

  “You’re not broken! And Mircea can go fuck himself.”

  I had started to take another drink, but Ray’s voice was hard enough to have me lower the canteen instead, and look at him in surprise. Nobody talked about father that way. “You sound angry.”

  “And you’re not? You ou
ght to be furious with him!”

  “I was, for a while.”

  “Well, why the hell did you stop?”

  Horatiu was banging pots around the kitchen, loudly enough to be heard throughout the house. They crashed like cymbals in my ears, making me wince. The kitchens were often on the upper floors in Venice, in case of floods, and a moment later, what sounded like every pot we had was flung down the stairs.

  Horatiu was a vampire; he could not disobey his master’s wishes.

  He could, however, make his feelings known.

  Mircea did not comment about the noise as he came back into the house.

  He had been giving final instructions to the large group of dark clad men outside. They looked so different from the usual sort one saw in the city, where the men were as fashion conscious as the women, and often outbid them on the finest jewels and most sumptuous materials. I had seen a popinjay of a boatman pass by, just this morning. His varicolored hose had been black and white diamond pattered on one leg and bright red on the other, while his doublet was a brilliant green. He had worn a black hat, but it had been crowned with a scarlet feather.

  But these men were different. Their clothing was dark—rough browns, grays and blacks—and cut from coarse, long wearing fabrics. Their faces were weathered, and some of them bearded, something also out of fashion in Venice. But it was their expressions that really gave them away, or would have, had Dory been awake to see the hard, solemn, no-nonsense countenances of the finest mercenaries that money could buy.

  But it was early morn, with the sun just beginning to peek over the horizon. She was still asleep, and under a spell to keep her that way. She went to bed last night, the petted, pampered daughter of a wealthy Venetian gentleman. She would wake somewhere, and someone, far different.

  I was still conscious, however, and watchful. Mircea knew, but he did not care. Today, he did not care about much of anything.

  He had just come in, but he turned around and went back out again, having thought of another proviso for the mercenary squad. They were mages, half of them, and strong enough that their magic peppered the air, even from this far away. The other half were vampires, powerful day walkers who had been hired to protect their precious cargo at night, but who could be active in daytime as well, if needed.

  I watched father through a window, haranguing the men in tones few would have dared to use with them. Yet they did not flinch, much less object. Perhaps it was because they were being paid a king’s ransom for this, but I thought there might have been another reason, at least for some.

  They were men who had seen almost everything, yet still there were glimpses, here and there, of compassion of those hardened features. Or maybe that was merely me, projecting what I felt onto them. I looked at Mircea’s agitated gestures, his dead white face, and the wildness in his eyes, and I both loved and hated him.

  But mostly, I hurt for him.

  This was killing him.

  He came back in and slammed the door, in another uncharacteristic gesture. And then just stood there for a moment, breathing hard. He didn’t need the air, but there were times when emotion took over, making demands that the body didn’t require, but that the mind did. His power was also flinging about all over the place, a tendril knocking a vase off a mantle, another sending papers scattering in the office across the hall, like doves taking flight.

  Finally, he looked at me.

  “You are going to take care of her.”

  “Yes.”

  “It is your life, too. If she dies—”

  “She won’t. All will be well.”

  “Nothing will be well after today! But she will live. Swear it to me!”

  He was suddenly in front of me, gripping my upper arms hard enough that Dory would have bruises the next day. I would need to come up with a story for those, I thought. Something for the men to tell her—

  Mircea shook me.

  I looked up at him solemnly. “I swear it.”

  He let me go.

  The men outside were beginning to shift slightly around the fleet of gondolas bobbing at the quay, there to take us out to the large galley in the harbor. I was already dressed in the plain blue dress and brown cloak I was to use for traveling. By the door, a crossbody bag in sturdy woolen cloth, waxed to keep out the weather, waited with a change of clothing and some money.

  Upstairs, the great trunks packed with the finest of linens, with silks and velvets and costly brocades, were closed, unneeded, unused. They would only serve to mark us for attention in our new life. They and the jewel casks and the artists supplies, a whole room full of the latter, with scattered easels and half-finished works, would remain behind.

  Horatiu told me, much later, that Mircea burnt it all. That he couldn’t bear to look at it. That he had retreated into his chamber afterwards and had not come out for weeks, not feeding, not speaking to anyone. Not even Radu, who Mircea had sent away on an errand yesterday, not wanting anyone around who might interfere, who might talk him out of this.

  I had not known that, then, but it is what I would have expected, looking into his face as his hands settled on either side of my temples.

  It was time.

  I stayed very still; this was a difficult task he had set for himself. Not only to erase a lifetime’s worth of memories, but to rebuild new ones in their place. There would be gaps, even large ones. There was no way to avoid that. But dhampirs were said to be mad, and it was hoped that she would blame it on that.

  But it would be hard and she would be alone, which was probably why Mircea’s hands shook at first against my skin. But then his eyes flashed gold, and the Basarab strength boiled to the surface. It had allowed him to claw his way out of his own grave one; had spurred him to flee his homeland, his wife, and everyone he knew, lest he hurt them; had let him start over in a dangerous new world that he had already started to conquer.

  Yet I saw the thought in his mind before he could hide it: what did it matter anymore, when he had done it all for her?

  And then there was silence, and a blinding whiteness, and the sensation of falling.

  And it was done.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Dorina, Faerie

  “I’m gonna need another drink,” Ray said, and took back the canteen.

  I let him have it. I had the impression that I had had enough in any case. My tongue felt numb and the rock underneath me had started to feel oddly floaty, as if it was rising and falling along with the waves.

  Yet I felt good, too, and strangely lighter for having finally told someone my story. I had never given Dory most of the details that Ray now knew. I wasn’t sure why; perhaps because it seemed like a burden that she shouldn’t have to bear. Ray blamed Mircea; Dory had a tendency to blame herself. In reality, it wasn’t anyone’s fault.

  It simply was.

  Mircea could have let the dhampir nature rip our minds apart, and we would both be dead now. Or, he could have done what he did, and saved us. It was all he knew how to do; I could not fault him for that. I did fault him for not releasing me later, once Dory and I were both adults and the reason for the fits had passed. But if he really believed me to be a malevolent spirit . . .

  Would I have taken that chance, in his place?

  I honestly did not know.

  There was one thing I would ask him, if I thought there was any chance of a reply: why had he left the memories with me? He had erased them from her side of the mind, but hadn’t touched them on mine. Why?

  Had he wanted her to have those sun-drenched days again? Those happy, laughing faces, those friends, those firsts? Otherwise, her first glimpse of Venice—gone. Her first birthday celebration—gone. Her first new clothes, her first taste of candy, her first kiss—from a flirtatious boy who had worked in the pigment shop where we bought our colors, when she was fifteen . . .

  Could he not bear to erase them all, with no hope of redemption? Did he think that I could protect them? That no one would be able to find them in my mind,
as it was no longer the dominant one?

  Or had he been afraid to battle me again, after I was older? Long decades had passed since our last confrontation. Was he worried that another clash might undo his previous work, and release me?

  Or perhaps, just perhaps, did he think that, one day, there might be a way for Dory and I to be whole again?

  “Then why did he try to persuade her to lock you away a second time?” Ray asked, his voice slurring slightly.

  I frowned at him. His face was slightly flushed and his eyes were glassy. He looked half asleep, yet he clearly was not.

  “How are you able to read me so easily?”

  “Maybe ‘cause we’re both drunk.” He turned the bottle over and I watched a couple of droplets splash onto the stone. It appeared that we had consumed the whole thing. I blinked at it in surprise.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I have never been drunk before.”

  He cocked his head. “Whaddya think?”

  “I think I like it.”

  “Wait until tomorrow,” he said ominously.

  He tossed the empty onto our supplies and added the remaining driftwood to the fire, turning the undersides of the stone fingers above us a bright gold with reflected light. It actually became quite warm in our small camp after a time, a little too warm. I pulled off the blanket, yet still was not comfortable.

  A moment later, I realized why.

  “Perhaps you could help me down to the river?” I asked Ray.

  “We’re already by the river.”

  “I meant . . . further off?”

  “Why? It’s cold away from the fire and—” He stopped. “Oh. Sure.”

  He scooped me up and carried me to an outcropping of rocks a few dozen yards upstream from our camp, but fairly near to the shoreline. Then he walked off, to give me some privacy, I supposed. The rocks kept me out of the stream, except for my feet and lower legs, which didn’t feel it anyway.